


What's a Little Organised Crime Between Friends?

by StrangeOccurrence



Series: Mob Wife Eddie Kaspbrak [1]
Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Bonding, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Guns, Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mob Boss Richie Tozier, Mob Wife Eddie Kaspbrak, Organized Crime, Origin Story, Polish Eddie Kaspbrak, Prequel, Threats, but before, duh - Freeform, if break ins are cute, in training, is not dark, okay I'll do this later, okay roll the tag warnings but this story, the order got screwed, those .. love is not a warning obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeOccurrence/pseuds/StrangeOccurrence
Summary: Another work in the universe created by @spaghettiemojii and @vulcansketch on twitter!My take on Richie and Eddie's origin story as Richie navigates his new line of work, and Eddie is brought into the business with him. [More explanation to come as the parts are uploaded]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Mob Wife Eddie Kaspbrak [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195622
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

Richie hadn’t wanted to be in Poland the day after his twenty-first birthday. He hadn’t wanted to be dropped off by Marvin, his dad’s aide, at nightfall in the middle of nowhere. He also did not want to be underneath an impending snow storm. But there he was. The way his father had put it, if he was going to fuck around (and fail out of college), he was going to find out (that Poland has cold and unforgiving winters). He was also going to find out that the family dental practice Richie had pointedly ignored for most of his life was the tip of a very large- and as of yet extremely confusing- ice berg. 

He didn't quite understand how retrieving 'three manilla envelopes' from a stranger's house was part of the 'family business', but he'd wasted too much of his dad's money on his unfulfilled college degree to complain. Plus, he wasn’t a pussy, as much as his hometown high-school arch rivals might think. He wasn’t a flake either, and he told his dad he was up to the task, so he was about to do it.

He trudged away from the drop off point, where Marvin's SUV was backing into a gap between two hedges. He rounded the corner of a hedge and got his first full view of the farmhouse in the dying light. They were quite literally in the middle of nowhere on a dirt track signposted 'Sienna'. He made it quickly across the open yard, like Marvin had instructed. He reached the first window on the right beside the front door and tapped its corner. Also as Marvin had predicted, it made a 'clunk', then creaked open towards him. A flow of warm air came from the dark kitchen.

In truth, Richie was relaxed about this whole thing because he thought it was all a test. His dad must know some Polish land baron, and together they were trying to teach Richie a stupid lesson about- well, Richie didn’t think that far ahead, but it was probably something they’d all have a laugh about when he got home.

He climbed down onto the kitchen counter from the window and pulled it closed after him. He rubbed his hands together furiously once he was off the counter. It didn’t take long for him to find the cabinet Marvin had described. It stood around the first corner out of the kitchen in a wide, stone-floored living room. He got right to it, crossing an orange and green rug as quietly as possible. He was almost certain no one was in the house. He hand’t _checked_ or anything. But, again, his _father_ sent him here. He couldn’t have put him in any real danger. He couldn’t be having him commit a _real_ crime.

Richie was frowning down at the safety pin between his fingers, pressing it into the tiny lock on the cabinet door. He was close, he could feel it in the mechanism, a click echoed off the stone walls behind him. Richie paused, then, slowly, he turned around.

Staring at him, behind the wide barrel of a shotgun, was a small rugged man. Rugged in a contained sort of way. His hair was dark and unkempt, and his clothes were made of something Richie could only describe as sacking. His jaw was sharp and heavy, partially obscured by the earthy-toned steel of the barrel. But his face was clean shaven, and the distant smell of Indian cress drifted from him in waves. Richie didn’t know it was Indian Cress yet. He’d learn, in time. All he knew was that he liked it, despite himself.

“Ah.” He said, dropping the pin onto the tasseled edge of the rug and raising his palms either side of his head. “Nuts. You got me.”

And if the stranger had decided to shoot him, Richie’s dazed last thoughts might have been something about how the firelight looked dancing across the stranger’s cheek. How its reflection in his eyes made them seem somehow darker. Black. Hard, but also-

“Eddie.” A distant voice, like a pitchy wheel muffled through the wall. A creak split through the room from above them and the man with the gun spun around, weapon dropping to graze the rug. Now Richie could see him in profile, it was a wonder he could hold the thing up. It reached his hip as its tip touched the ground. He was slight, but evidently strong beneath the brown folds of his shirt.

The creaking came again, and then it kept coming until each noise merged into a set of thumps descending from the wall over the fireplace. The man- Eddie, Richie figured- pointed the gun squarely at him again, and gestured sharply with it.

“What?” Richie whispered.

The man muttered something in a language Richie didn’t know. Polish might have been a smart guess, but Richie did not feel smart. Eddie let the gun fall to his side again and he hurried towards Richie. Before Richie could flinch, Eddie pushed at his shoulder and pointed past him. They were almost nose to nose. Richie’s eyes were wide. He was slow to turn and follow where Eddie was pointing. There was an alcove behind its door, carved into the wall and with a heavy looking sliding panel beside it. Eddie hissed something and nudged him sharply with the butt of the gun, shaking Richie from the worst of his shock.

“You want me to go in there?” he whispered. “No fucking way, dude. You may be a tiny doll-house person, but I’m basically the BFG-”

The thumps had been getting louder, and now they came to a stop. The man looked urgently over his shoulder and snapped something short and hushed at Richie, gesturing a final time at the small space between the cabinets. Richie, with no other option available to him, crawled his way inside. Before he could think of anything else, the man slid the door shut with a heavy scrape. Richie was plunged into darkness.

The space was far too small for a normal person, let alone someone with Richie’s proportions. His neck was crammed at a hard angle, chin pressed to his knees. He listened to the man’s footsteps pass back over the rug.

“Mama.” He heard, muffled.

A female voice responded. Richie couldn’t understand what she said, but the tone was harsh. Her voice was like gravel. Scratchy and worn.

The man replied, and the next response, from the woman- his mother, Richie supposed- was a shout. Her voice rose up from its deep growl into pitchy squeaks. It was loud enough for Richie to pick out the unfamiliar syllables. Consonants following one another harshly.

The man’s voice edged in from time to time, but he was steamrollered. Richie’s body was tensed. His joints strained with the angles he’d forced them into. He had a desperate need to cough. There was a small silence. He took a breath.

And then there was the sharp smack of skin on skin. The woman’s voice growled low again, a final few sentences, and then two smacks in quick succession. Richie’s whole body flinched at the sound of it. There was a clatter, like metal on stone, and then, slowly, the thump of feet on stairs began again.

Richie stayed where he was for a long while. He couldn’t hear anything in the room. Then there was the shift, material on material. Footsteps padding on carpet, getting closer. A scrape and a click. Eddie appeared in Richie’s line of sight. His gun hung by his side. He waved a hand. Richie hesitated, but the man nodded. His face was in shadow. Richie began to move, and he drew back, letting him extract himself out onto the rug.

They looked at one another as Richie sat, limbs aching, beside the glass cabinet.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Richie whispered. He knew Eddie couldn’t understand him, but something seemed to click anyway. He looked down and stared steadily at Richie’s face for a long while. Then, he turned and disappeared behind the wall housing the stairs. There were some gentle shuffling noises from the room beyond- one Richie hadn’t seen yet. Then he came back. He had a book in his hand. He put it down in front of Richie.

Richie picked it up.

“A dictionary.” He said. “Polish-English. So you do have some brains in that pretty head, huh?”

Eddie’s dark eyes watched him.

“Okay.” Richie said, undeterred. “Let’s get this going.” 

***

The dictionary worked okay for a little while. The two of them sat on the floor- the shotgun between them on the rug, a spiral of crudely engraved flowers winding up its barrel.

On a paper bag, they scrawled out sentences in their own language, and the other squinted in the dim firelight to translate using the dictionary.

Richie managed to explain, as best he could, that he wasn’t there to hurt anyone. He made a mistake, and he was going to leave now. Eddie took a long moment to reply. When he did, he wrote three words which Richie translated to ‘Stay. It’s dangerous.’

Richie looked up at him and Eddie was looking towards the window, where snow was falling heavily against the black sky.

Then Richie took the paper bag and pen, and called him a weird motherfucker _once_ and Eddie threw the whole dictionary into the fire.

They sat in silence after that until the storm stopped rattling the window frames. Richie got to his feet a few moments after the last flurry of snow passed the window. Eddie watched him, the same steady darkness on his face. He frowned.

“If we still had the dictionary I could say goodbye, fucking idiot.” Richie said cheerfully as he dusted the grit and ash from his trousers. Eddie kept frowning.

“This has been fun.” Richie said. “And thanks for not killing me, that was cool of you, but I’m getting out of here before that mother of yours makes another appearance.”

Eddie shook his head, following Richie to his feet. He stood a full head shorter than him, which made Richie grin. He resisted from ruffling his hair.

"I mean it, dude." Richie said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "How do I explain this to you without that fucking dictionary?" 

Eddie hadn't picked up his gun. He looked like he wanted to say something, but they both knew it was pointless. Richie wasn’t sure what made him do what he did next. Later, he’d attribute it to the vague scenes from The Godfather that had been floating through his head since his dad had sent him on his shady mission. Not that this was particularly appropriate, given the context; but Richie had had a long night, and Eddie hadn’t shot him, or given him up to his mother. He could have, and he didn’t, and Richie didn't know why. He wasn’t ever going to see him again.

So he took a step forwards. Eddie’s brow knitted, tilting his chin back to keep Richie in his sights. In one movement, Richie put his hands either side of Eddie's face, leant down, and kissed him square on the mouth.

Before Eddie could reach for the gun, Richie dashed around the corner where he'd came, and climbed up onto the counter. He smashed his shin into a cast iron pan as he did so. He suppressed a shout and pushed at the window. It opened with a creak. He crouched in the frame. The snow was high. It would probably reach his thighs. He took an icy breath. He was shivering already, but he didn't have a choice. Before the woman upstairs could hear, or Eddie could catch him and wrestle him to the ground, Richie hopped down into the icy brush. 

He was shaking with cold as soon as he landed. He staggered his way down the driveway in the dark and towards the meeting point Marvin had given him. He turned back only once before he turned into a set of hedges. His feet were losing feeling as he squinted back at the shadow of the house. he wasn't sure, but he thought he could make out the shape of the man- Eddie- in the kitchen window. 

"Adieu." Richie muttered allowed, then he turned around and pushed on through the snow. 

***

Having avoided getting his face blown off, but still definitely having failed his father’s first task, Richie was shipped to Florida.

"I wanted California."

"You're getting Florida."

And that was that. Marvin pointed out on jet down south that most college dropouts didn't make 80 dollars an hour to manage a 'property' in Miami. Richie didn't know what that meant, so he ignored him. The money wasn't the point. Went had always thought Richie was for shit. He _could_ do the alternative- which was get a job in the tackle shop at Brewer Lake back in Maine. It wouldn't be a bad life. He might even be able to manage something in a skate shop in Bangor. But he couldn't ignore the fact that his dad was giving him a chance here. A chance to be something useful. He didn't know quite _what_ , but he was getting the feeling this was his last chance.

He was tired of failing. 

Nonetheless, he was less than thrilled when he was dropped off in the parking lot of a run down bar beside an Airport hotel. The sign was chipped and read 'The Mariner' in curved blue text. A rusted metal wave swept across the sign. Richie looked around as Marvin's limo withdrew. He kept watching as it swept up the overpass and onto the freeway, where it melted into the shining windshields reflecting afternoon sunshine. 

He looked down at hands. He held the paper map and two 'work phones' his dad gave him. He wasn't sure how running a bar needed one work phone, let alone two. He was sure to find out. 

***

On his first day on the job, four broad men in dark shirts positioned themselves beside the front door. The place was empty besides the men and the waitresses, who were hovering by the coolers looking at their nails and chatting quietly. Richie slipped into the back and called his dad.

“What’s the problem, son?” Went said. “I’m on the jet in five.”

“There, uh, It’s weird here.” Richie said.

“Weird how?” Went said, in the same voice he used when Richie used to ask where the pizza rolls were. _‘In the freezer, son. They’re always in the freezer_ ’. Richie could hear Marvin in the background. He rolled his eyes and slipped into the back office behind the counter.

“No one's doing anything. And there are these… _guys_ here-“

“Protection.” Went said, again, like this was the most obvious thing in the universe.

“Huh?”

“Rich,” Went said tiredly. “Do you let a child ride their first bike without training wheels?”

“I- Dude, I don’t know-“

“Hey.” Went said. He hated it when Richie called him ‘dude’. Richie did it as much as possible. “This isn’t a joke. I have a million kids with more experience out there, who know the area a hundred times better. I have no qualms with yanking you back to Derry so fast you won’t even know _where_ you are.“

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie said. “I know.”

“So.” Went said, sounding like he was holding back a monumental lecture. “For the last time, can you handle things?”

“Yeah. Yep.” Richie glanced through the glass panel in the office wall. One of the men by the entrance was moving a pistol from the table to a loop on his belt. “Ah, boy.” he muttered.

"Richie..."

“Yeah, dad.” He said, louder. “I got it.”

“Do you remember what I told you?”

“Let in Ham in on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“And…”

“And leave him alone to take care of the books.”

“And…” Went said. The whirring engine of his jet began to swallow his voice.

“And run the bar the rest of the time. And mind my business.” Richie tacked on the final point grudgingly. He looked at his fingernails. He’d colored them with black sharpie that morning and it was already worn into faded greenish streaks between deep black rivets on his cuticles.

“Perfect. I’ll have Marv check in as soon as I’m done with him up here. Expect him mid week. You can do this.” Went said. Richie didn’t think he sounded too sure. “Now get to work.”

The line was dead before Richie could say anything else.

“Love you, dad.” He said to the empty office. He wrinkled his nose. He was going to have to get used to the smell of stale beer pretty fast.

***

Richie learned very quickly that no one in his professional life was ever going to take him seriously.

Ham came on Tuesdays and Thursdays as expected. Ham was a tall man. He came in with two briefcases, looked Richie up and down like he was a novel species of caterpillar, and then disappeared into the back for two hours. Richie pottered around cleaning glasses, and serving the rare customer who wandered in from the hotel across the street. Then Ham left with barely a nod, carrying his cases in one hand.

The Mariner had four waitresses, six on weekends. Richie tried fleetingly to bond with them in his first month at work, but they didn’t think much of him. They smiled awkwardly at his jokes, and then he heard them giggling whenever he walked away. Which… he wasn’t nine years old anymore, but it was not the best feeling ever. There were a few regulars. Some of whom Richie recognised from his apartment block. They were old, and they didn't seem to think much of Richie, either. They came to play darts at about four, drank solidly until eleven forty, and then went home. On Saturdays they stayed 'til twelve. 

In all, he was kind of lonely. By month four, he still didn’t know Miami as well as he expected. He was getting used to the general stickiness- the sweat blooming across his back when he stepped outside. He adjusted to the thick grasses, the salty smell in the air, and the wide, low slump of the skyline. He knew his way around his little patch, but he didn't really feel like he was home. He watched people come and go from the airport hotel. He felt like one of them. Stuck waiting for his flight. 

His dad wired him three grand at the end of each week, he stared at the number going up on his checking account, gathering zeros with alarming speed, but he didn’t have anything to spend it on. He lived in an apartment his dad chose, because he had to control the security. It was nice not to worry about rent, Richie guessed. Richie had never worried about rent. Richie was realising that he'd never done anything worth shit in his whole life. 

By this point, yes, Richie was aware that the things his father did must be a little bit illegal. He and his dad had always operated on something of a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ basis. His whole family did, until his mom died. Richie didn’t see why his new, wildly over-compensated position in a bar with no tangible business should be any different. Went made it clear enough that he didn't want too many questions. So he kept his mouth shut, walked to The Mariner at eleven am, and counted the hours until he could go back to his block again and stare at the TV until he passed out.

That was his routine, at least, until one Tuesday in May. Richie went out back at the sound of the bell, fully expecting to be greeted by Ham’s wiry silhouette. He was taken by surprise when he pulled the door open and his eyes skated out into the middle distance. He frowned, and then looked down a few inches, and there he stood. The Polish man from the farmhouse.

“Eddie.” Richie said dazedly. “Polish Eddie.”

When Eddie didn’t disappear, or begin to shift around like a mirage, Richie took a step back.

“Eddie?” He said again. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

***

Eddie came inside without any prompting and sat in the far corner of the bar. He drank the wine Richie offered him, and watched Richie work without a word. When security left, and Richie shut off the lights at the end of the night, Eddie followed him into the parking lot. 

"You're coming?" Richie said, tossing his keys between his hands. Eddie nodded. His features strikingly familiar despite the year-and-a-bit that had passed since they met. "I'm stuck with you, huh?" Richie said. Eddie didn't say anything. Richie turned and began to walk. Eddie followed, remaining a step and a half behind him the whole way back to the apartment block. 

When they got there, Richie saw that he'd pulled out a key of his own. Richie couldn't say he was surprised. 

"This is your stop, too, huh?" 

Eddie's soft leather shoes made a 'pat' noise on the concrete as he came to a halt by the vending machine. The light above them hummed quietly. 

"Well, goodnight." Richie said. He began to walk towards the steps. Eddie followed, a safe way behind. Richie let him. He peeled off on the third floor, running his key absently against the chipped metal posts of the ballastrade. As he was unlocking his door, he saw Eddie go softly by and climb the next flight. Richie stopped turning his key and listened. There was a gentle scrape from the floor above, and then the creak and clack of a door opening and closing. He took a breath of thick night air.

This was how it was going to be. 

Richie didn't call and ask his dad what was going on when he got into his apartment. He didn't ask the next day when Eddie showed up at the bar again with an expectant look on his face. He didn't ask at all. Richie had spent the whole night thinking about it, and he figured this was a case of DIY witness protection. Richie knew that his dad had some contacts he was not particularly friendly with across Poland and Ukraine. Assuming Eddie or his Mom were part of- or even associated- with any of them; they probably wouldn’t have been too popular when it got around that Went’s kid got in and out of their farmhouse unharmed.

Went might be bad, but he wasn’t usually evil, so Richie could imagine him going a touch out of his way to extract Eddie from the situation, forging him some papers and having him work in the Mariner. In fact, he probably hoped it would give Richie a friend. ‘ _He’s around your age, son. Have a beer or two together_ ’. That had happened enough times. Richie got a little _too_ friendly with one of the guys once and they ended up dating for a year and a half . Went stopped bringing it up after that.

That was Richie’s theory about Eddie, anyway. And Eddie couldn’t confirm it, because he had definitely picked up some English since they last met, but it was very basic. Over the next few weeks, Richie wouldn’t hear him speak a word outside of their apartment complex.

He was always listening, though. He listened to customers in the bar, to the TV above the liquor shelf, to audio-books when Richie drove the two of them across town to the beach. That’s another thing. He had a car now. It was a 2004 Camry and Marvin had dropped it off a week after Eddie arrived with a satisfied grin on his face. Richie took the keys without a word and went back into the bar.

***

The first time Eddie came into Richie’s apartment, it was because of an accident.

They'd been in the same building for about three months. Up until that point, they’d shared some kind of unspoken agreement about how it was going to work. Their interactions were punctuated by Eddie’s stoic nods when Richie held the door for him into the Mariner, and the dissatisfied quirks of his eyebrow when one of the waitresses stacked the beer fridge wrong.

One night, it was getting towards the end of summer and Richie was fucking around in the parking lot. He’d dropped Eddie off over an hour ago, and stayed down on the kerb for a cigarette. Richie had become half convinced that one of Eddie's jobs was to spy on him for his dad, so he didn’t smoke on his own balcony in case Eddie came down for the ice machine and saw him. Not that his dad could stop him smoking, but Richie told him he quit a year ago. 

He had his cigarette between his fingers, and he was grappling with a bottle opener on a beer he swiped from the bar. The sun had just set behind the row of bedraggled palm trees by the freeway. The night air was stiflingly warm. He tried to clip the thing onto the metal cap for a third time, and everything slipped. His cigarette tumbled to the ground, along with the bottle and three dark spots of blood from the fresh gash in his hand.

“Come.” He heard, following a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turned, still in shock at the shining red spattered across his hand, to see Eddie holding a grocery bag in one hand and his keys in the other.

“Oh, hey, man.” Richie said. “I’m good…” He glanced back down at the pool of blood seeping into the soft ash of his cigarette. It made him feel a little queasy. Eddie was turning away from him. He gestured with his keys as if he was telling a dog ‘ _heel’_.

“Come.” He said again. Richie did.

They got upstairs and Eddie waited patiently for Richie to point out his keys in his pocket. Business-like, Eddie reached his fingers into Richie’s pocket, pressing against his thigh as they coaxed out his key chain. He unlocked the door and ushered Richie over to the faucet. Richie wondered, somewhat distractedly, whether the layouts of their apartments were the same.

The block was not nice. It was a simple, rectangular slab of concrete reaching five stories high. Each floor’s front door was joined to the staircase by a thin balcony which became a slippery death trap whenever it rained- which was every day at noon. The back of the building looked out over the sprawling concrete top of a casino. Richie didn’t go back there if he could avoid it, but sometimes he needed a coffee at three in the morning, and he had to make the jog alongside the casino to the nearest 7-Eleven.

Eddie thrust Richie’s hand under the running water.

“Wait.” He said briskly, leaving the tap running as he disappeared from the kitchen. Richie did as he was told. A few minutes later, Eddie was back with a small green first aid kit. Something unlatched in Richie’s chest as he began to unzip it on his counter. Vaguely, he felt embarrassed that all his dishes were still dirty in the sink- the water splashed unevenly from the top of a grease-encrusted pan. Eddie paid little notice, beside a small wrinkle of his nose as he turned off the faucet and took Richie’s wrist between his fingers.

Richie looked up at him, carefully drying Richie’s hand and ripping an alcohol swab with his teeth.

“Thanks.” Richie said quietly.

After that night, Eddie never really left.

“No, dude. ’Sure’.” Richie said. Boxes of takeout spread across his kitchen table. Eddie sat in the folding chair opposite. “Copy me.”

“Sooer.” Eddie said. “I am.”

“Uh-uh.” Richie slurped a spoonful of ramen. “You’re saying ‘sewer’.”

“Always ‘no’, never ‘good work, Eddie.’” Eddie scowled. Richie grinned.

“Good work, Eddie.” he parroted. Eddie scowled harder.

“‘Sure’. Say it again. It has a ‘sh’ sound.”

“Stupid word. Not spell right.” Eddie snapped. He tossed his lettuce leaf onto his side plate.

“Yeah, welcome to the English language, buddy.” Richie said.

Richie had learned a number of things about Eddie by this point. He was stubborn; unwaveringly so. He hated mess. He was a hard worker. He was smart, but quiet about it. And finally, he was miles and miles better suited than Richie for line of work. Eddie Kaspbrak, the Polish stranger from the farmhouse who had spared Richie’s life, was absolutely, certifiably insane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so unbelievably bad I'm so sorry lol I just have had a . time of it with other commitments but I wanted to get SOMETHING out since I'm so grateful for all the nice comments on the other parts of this series. I'll try and come back and clean this draft up in the next couple of days. But yeah, I'm sorry if this is super boring I'm. doing my best with the time I have atm. 
> 
> Also please be sure to check out the concept creators on Twitter! They’re great artists!
> 
> I'll try and make this a little more like. fun in the third part! which I'm hoping to make the final instalment of this prequel! Thanks for reading everyone

Considering their first meeting, and the nature of their work, Richie could have predicted that Eddie could take care of himself. What he didn’t predict was the swiftness with which he was willing to stick a knife into a stranger.

“Oh.” Richie said. His rag fell from his fingers as, for the second time in their friendship, blood was spurting from someone’s hand. The hand belonged to Tony, who was yelling, of course. Tony had been informing Richie that he’d be lucky to keep his… extremities if he didn’t 'respect their patch'. Richie said what he usually said, which was 'hey man, I just work here'. 

They were getting more of those threats recently. Went did warn Richie that he had some ongoing operations which might attract some extra attention in the area. He promised to send more security, but they hadn’t shown up yet.

Tony had already made three appearances that month. The first one was a little alarming, but by now Richie was pretty sure he was just someone’s uncle stamping around the local bars to blow off some steam about how rich and important he used to be a million years ago. And that’s what he’d been doing, right up until he got carried away and put his arm out to grab Carla, the waitress, as she passed him with a tray of shots.

Eddie didn’t have much time for that. The plastic holder rattled as he picked up the knife from its spot next to the lime slices. Tony’s free hand was spread, palm down, on the bar. Right as Carla began to react, her tray wobbling as she was intercepted, Eddie struck like a viper. One quick movement and the blade disappeared into his flesh with a dull thump.

The room seemed to pause before it rippled over everyone- including Tony- what had just transpired.

Entirely businesslike, Eddie was already snapping his fingers at security as Tony began to roar. Two of the bouncers came over and dragged the guy towards the door- knife still nestled between the tendons in his right palm.

“Don’t ever touch girl.” Eddie muttered to himself, wiping his hands down on a dish towel. Carla was frozen, staring, wide eyed down at the shot glasses rolling around on the sticky floorboards. Richie looked over at their regulars, who were still playing darts.

“Woah, Eds.” he said eventually.

“What do you all stare for?” Eddie said, looking between Carla and Richie with a genuine puzzlement on his face. “Work?” He said. He looked to Richie, only because Richie was technically his boss.

“Uh, yeah.” Richie said. “Carla, you can take ten-“ he said. Eddie huffed as he moved passed her. Carla slowly began to blink again and she looked at Richie.

“He just shanked him.” She said.

“Yeah.” Richie said sympathetically. “Take a break. I’ll clean up here.”

***

Eddie didn’t get softer after that. His edges were rougher and rougher at the bar. Richie came back from a smoke break to find Priscilla on her hands and knees beside the beer fridge. Eddie was standing, leaning against the handle of a broom, watching her carefully.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Richie said.

“She cleans grates.” Eddie said.

“I didn’t ask her to clean the grates.” Richie said.

“No.” Eddie said. “I did.” He held Richie’s gaze for an extended second. A rope of static cracked between them. Richie blinked, then he watched Priscilla scrubbing away at the fan grates below the fridge. Black sooty chunks of grease were piling up beside her rag and brush.

“Okay.” He looked back at Eddie. “Good.” He said. Something passed along the static rope. Richie wasn’t sure what. 

At the apartment block, though, things were different. The weeks drew on, and his edges stayed rough at work. He commanded the place like a seasoned captain. But at home, the softer he let his voice dip when he explained Polish idioms. The later he stayed in his apartment after they finished dinner. 

The more he spoke. Or, more noticeably, the longer he tried to make himself clear when the words were hard for him.

“I have no home.” Eddie said. It was a cool clear night. They were on Richie’s couch, the room lit by the muted TV and a conch shell lamp. The screen door to the tiny balcony was ajar. It let in a light but fresh breeze through the stuffy apartment. The air whispered over Richie's shins, kicked up on the coffee table. A four hour rainstorm had just petered out. Fall was coming. 

“They killed my father." Eddie said. "My mother-” he didn’t finish. Richie sensed a delicate shake of his head. The rope of static which had formed at the bar had never gone away, it only got thicker. Richie visualised it sometimes when he closed his eyes at night, reaching up from his chest, through the ceiling into Eddie's apartment. Blueish and hissing. 

“You know,” Richie said. “if you want to go back to Poland we can probably get you back out there somehow.“

“Not _Poland_.” Eddie said. “Not _about_ Poland.” The pleather creaked as he turned to Richie. “Before I left, the same. Plus,” he was wearing the face he always had on when breaking news which was, in his opinion, obvious. “Your father give me five year contract. Conditions. You think I live in concrete box on purpose?”

“Excuse me, your highness.” Richie said, mocking a tip of his hat. Eddie didn’t laugh, but Richie was beginning to learn which blank expressions had a hint of humor to them.

“And you’re- that’s okay for you?” Richie said. “You’re stuck here.”

 _Stuck here with me_ , he thought.

Eddie looked at him for a long moment. He always considered Richie so carefully. Then he nodded. And in a completely unprecedented gesture, his hand darted from his side and took Richie’s. His palms were rough, the pads of his fingers catching as they settled over Richie’s knuckles.

“You kiss me.” He said solemnly. Richie’s heart climbed up his oesophagus. This was the first moment he realised he might be in some trouble. He understood the risks his job carried- some of them anyway- but developing _any_ sort of _thing_ for this tiny, thuggish, terrifying man would be disastrous. Bad in ways he didn’t ever know how to articulate.

“I- what?” Richie said. 

“Polska. Lodz. You kiss me.”

“I didn’t teach you that word.” Richie said with a skittish chuckle. “What are you reading on that kindle of yours?" 

Eddie continued to watch him.

"I didn’t know if you remembered that, actually." Richie scratched his nose and looked out of the window to avoid Eddie's gaze. "I mean, it was kind of heat of the moment stuff out there, bud. All those sexy guns and I-“

“Shut up now.” Eddie waved a hand. Richie obliged.

He was learning that he kind of liked it when Eddie ordered him around. It wasn’t like when his dad, or Marvin, told him what to do. Eddie didn’t tell him to shut up because he didn’t want to listen to him. He could tell where the substance was, and he decided that neither of them had time for the rest.

“What, you never been kissed before?” Richie said when Eddie let the silence roll on. 

“Not that.” Eddie said. 

“Then what?” 

“We did not speak yet with each other, then.”

“No.” Richie said. I guess we hadn’t.”

Eddie said something in Polish. Just one word. A rare smile graced his face. Richie stared. He had no idea what the word meant, but as Eddie smiled at him, he had a feeling he was going to learn.

“What did you say?” He said. Eddie tilted his head. “You called me a prick or something, didn’t you?”

Eddie’s smile widened and he laughed. It was a small sound, gentle in comparison to his sharp features. Richie was melting clean away.

“Yeah?” Richie said. “It was, wasn’t it, motherfucker? Try it again, I’ll end you.”

“You are slow.” Eddie practically giggled as Richie nudged at him. “And clumsy. I kill you before you stand.”

That was true.

They laughed themselves into silence, hands to themselves again. Richie realised that he’d never been scared of Eddie since he came to Florida. Even when the image of the knife flashed stark in his mind.

He figured that was probably dumb.

***

“Stan the Man!” Richie yelled. He vaulted over the bar, knocking three syrup bottles onto the rubber matted floor. He ignored them and threw himself at Stan, who received his hug with his trademark long-wearing acceptance.

“Hi, Rich.” He said, patting his back once before he was set free.

“I can’t believe it, man! I thought dad was bluffing.” Richie said.

“Bluffing?” Stan said mildly.

“Yeah! That you were on board with all this crap.”

“You thought he was bluffing for six years straight?”

“Uh.” Richie led Stan across the floor. He unlatched the gate of the bar and let Stan go through to the office ahead of them. “No. But it was a lot more credible when I thought he was letting you intern for a dentists’ office.”

“Well, I was.” Stan set down his backpack and settled into the chair by the computer. The office was small. It had three black safes built in behind a row of small bookcases. There was a TV that didn’t work nailed to the back wall, and the desk was pushed underneath it. A slab of a computer sat on top. Stan was already turning it on.

“So… what _do_ you do for him?” Richie said.

Stan looked for a long moment at the blue loading screen. He huffed a breath as he turned back to Richie.  
  
“You know he doesn’t want me talking about back-of-house with you.” Stan said with a half smile. Richie rolled his eyes. “It’s just numbers.” Stan said with a guilty shrug.

“So hot of you, Stannie.” Richie said. He didn’t let the twinge of annoyance come through in his voice. “So hip.”

“So.” Stan said, swinging a little in the office chair. The fans on the computer began to whir. “Where’s the bulldog?”

“The what?” Said Richie.

Stan raised an eyebrow.

“The kid your dad hired last quarter?” He said. “The one who skewered Tony Caracci on a machete.”

Richie frowned, brain ticking over.

“Who’s calling him the- He’s at the doctor’s- he’s- wait.” Richie said, gathering himself. “It was not a _machete_ , it was a fruit knife-“

Stan looked at him like that didn’t help much.

“That guy was a douche, man. He had it coming.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Stan was tapping away at the computer now the load screen had dissolved. “But the Caraccis are usually allowed to be, uh, douches.” Stan said. “On account of them owning like three million casinos.”

Richie wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he figured it was bad. He wondered if Eddie had known who Tony was when he skewered him. Maybe they needed to be more careful. 

Richie shrugged.

“Well.” Said Stan. “He’s making quite the impression.”

“How do you even know-“ Richie’s thought was cut off by a clatter from the bar.

“Hold on.” He said. Stan was pulling up what looked like excel sheets, and staring more intently at the screen now anyway.

“Carla, come on.” Richie groaned as he poked his head out of the door. “We’re gonna run down the world stock of glassware if you keep pulling this shit.”

***

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Richie said later. Stan had left. He just missed Eddie, which Richie was about to gloat about to him via text. Apparently Eddie was the talk of the entire organisation. That’s how Stan made it seem, anyway. Richie guessed he was being dramatic. But he did seem bummed when it was time to leave and Eddie hadn’t come back from his doctor’s appointment. (They all had to go to the same doctor. Besides the mould in the apartment block, this was by far Eddie’s most popular gripe about their living arrangements).

“What doesn’t?” Eddie said. He was tapping away on his laptop at one of the high tables near the window.

“Ah, nothing.” Richie said. “I just don’t really get my dad’s whole deal. Like, he still works at the practice, right? Back in Derry. How does being a dentist fit into this whole Kingpin bullshit.”

“Mr. Tozier is not kingpin.” Eddie said, in something close to a scoff. Richie raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Well pardon my miss-speak.” He said. “What would you call him?”

Eddie pushed his laptop away and turned in his seat. Richie felt examined. He shifted.

“What?” Richie said when Eddie’s gaze didn’t let up.

“You run bar, but father does not show how job works?” He said.

“I know what money laundering is, Eddie.” Richie said. “I just thought it had to be cash. I don’t get how it fits in with the whole Dentist thing.”

“Come.” Eddie said.

“What?” Richie said tiredly.

“You are like helpless child. Come here, I show.”

“Uh, I am not helpless.”

Eddie beckoned and Richie, looking longingly at the back office, slouched across the room and stood beside him.

“What?” He said moodily.

“Here.” Eddie clicked on a tab on his screen. “Is Father.” He had a little page full of clip art images in front of him. Richie frowned.

“You got a little powerpoint presentation going here, Eds?”

“Shh.” Eddie snapped. “Watch. Your father.”

He put his curser over a small cartoon man in a blue mask and scrubs. He moved it next to a crudely drawn building.  
  
“He take, um, people for teeth?” Eddie looked at Richie.

“Clients?” Richie said. “Customers? You mean people going to the dentist, right?”

Eddie nodded.  
  
“Yes. People at dentist pay money.” Eddie clicked on a picture of a dollar bill. “Real money. Real dentist. No problem. But some of them…” Eddie moved his cursor again and dragged a picture of a ghost next to the dollar bill. He clicked a few buttons on the keyboard and the image multiplied. Once, twice, a third time, until four little cartoon ghosts were floating beside the building. Richie looked at the cartoon dentist.

“Get to the point, dude, I’m hungry.” Richie said.

“Some custom- Custom?“

“Customers.”

“Some customers not alive.” Eddie said. “Not real.” Eddie tapped ‘delete’ and the ghost disappeared. “But money is real.” Eddie copy and pasted more dollar bills. His fingers clacked on the keys until almost the whole screen was obscured with dollar bills.

“Jesus.” Richie muttered. “I get it.”

“Money comes-“ Eddie pulled a picture of a pile of dirt out. “From the dope.”

“Dope like weed?”

“Dope like Heroin.” Eddie said.

Richie leant against the desk.

“So, dad has some fake customers and he pretends they pay for appointments? And that’s how he cleans the money?”

“How he started.” Eddie said. “Now he has lots of cleaners; lots of business. Everyone knows this.”  
  
“Not me.” Richie said.

“No. _You_ are helpless.” Eddie smiled. Richie nodded slowly, and then pushed himself off from the desk towards the kitchen.  
  
“Ooh, yeah. I’m sooo helpless I probably can’t make mac’n’cheese all on my own.” He called behind him, heading back towards the kitchen. “I probably need a big strong Polish criminal to help me-“

“I kill you and your father never find you.” Eddie retorted from the table. Richie peered through the swing-door to the kitchen. Eddie was back on his laptop, typing fast. Two of the guys from Went’s detail were dozing by the entryway. The waitresses had gone home and there were no other customers around.

Richie grinned to himself as he turned around and went into the grotty kitchen to find a pan.

“You should’a got me while you had the chance, Eddie, my love.” He called as the door closed behind him. “You’re far too attached to me now.”

***

Richie had been okay with Eddie taking charge more at work. He liked it, actually. And he liked how they were at home. He felt like he was seeing something secret whenever Eddie closed his eyes on the couch, or laughed sharply at Hell's Kitchen.

Eddie commanded a confidence that was so quiet, yet so unwavering, that it sometimes made Richie’s knees weak.Ever since he was a kid, people only really looked at Richie when he was making a load of noise. The only control he ever had was choosing between letting a sweltering quiet swallow him, or expelling everything he thought out of his mouth in real time to stay afloat.

Eddie spoke a single word and people listened to him. Sure maybe he had a touch of recklessness behind his eyes that strangers could sense, but it was powerful nonetheless. A power Richie did not have. So, he figured it was good management to… amplify a strong staff member. Leave Eddie to boss the waitresses around and glare at the guys in vests hanging at the pool table.

Today, though, was the first time Richie worried he was letting it go too far.

At about an hour before close, a group of five or six guys in identical leather jackets swarmed in and hung around in the doorway. The two security guys eyed them none too subtly, but they didn’t take much notice.

“Someone tell the cast of Greece we didn’t book 'em.” Carla muttered. She’d declined Richie’s offers to head out early and was polishing a glass now beside him at the bar. She'd warmed up to Richie decidedly since the Tony incident. 

“Shut up.” he said absently. Eddie was mopping the floor on the other side of the room. Richie’s eyes drifted towards him. He seemed oblivious to the influx of testosterone in the room. One of the guys broke off from the rest, none of whom were making moves to offer the establishment any patronage.

“What can I do you for?” Richie said loudly. Carla slipped quietly out into the back as the man approached.

“Rich, right?” He said.

“Uh, Richie, yeah.”

“I’m Zach.” He held out his hand. Richie hesitated before shaking.

“It is a pleasure, Zach.” He said. “But we’re just about on last calls-“

“Oh, no, we’re not stopping.” Zach said. He had bleached hair which was tinging yellow and a face Richie could only describe as mean. “Your old man is a friend of my old man.” He said, leaning on the bar with thick forearms. Richie eyed him.

“Ah.” He said. “He hasn’t mentioned you.”

“Well, it’s been a while since we were all in touch.” Zach flicked at a cup of straws. “But I still wanted to do y’all a courtesy… Keep all our pegs in the right holes.”

“Okay.” Richie said, swallowing a joke. It was one in the morning so he was finding it difficult to summon the energy to care about this particular situation.

“Okay?” Zach said, he raised an eyebrow like he was surprised. He masked it quickly, but Richie caught it. Eddie was looking in their direction now. 

“I’ll, uh, pass it along?” Richie said. Zach stared at him from below his brow, and then pushed himself briskly off the counter. Standing straight, he had a poorly concealed smirk on his face.

“Well, good.” He said, slick like engine oil. One of his squad at the door chuckled. “We’ll see you around, Tozier.”

“See you.” Richie said tepidly as the group departed, one by one, back through the door. They looked over their shoulders, muttering amongst themselves. Richie looked down at the bar. He had that familiar feeling that he’d failed a test. When he looked up again, Eddie was careering towards him. Richie flinched.

“What is that?” Eddie said, pulling up short of Richie by the bar. He leant his mop against a chair and folded his arms. Richie was tired of this day. He came out into the seating area to avoid Eddie’s sharp stance.

“What ‘ _was_ ’ that, Eds.” He said. “Past tense.”

“That man _was_ walk on you like cabbage patch.”

“Excuse me?” Richie plopped himself into a cracked leather chair by the pool table. He made a grabby hand in Eddie’s direction for one of the beers by his elbow. Eddie ignored him and approached the pool table.

“He challenge you!” Eddie snapped. “You bend over. Are you- this is you?” Eddie snatched up a straw from the cup and bent its neck. Richie sighed.

“Dude-“ he tried to wave Eddie away. “Do you ever get tired of yappin'-“

“It. Was. Test.” Eddie said, words punctuated by one palm slapping the other. "He goes home now, talks to family, then entire world knows you are weak link.” Eddie ploughed on firmly, hands settling on his hips. Richie had a migraine coming on. He took off his glasses and tossed them onto the worn out felt of the pool table. He needed to get his prescription changed.

“I say this with love, Eds, but I do not take performance reviews from you.” Richie said. “Or anyone.” Eddie stared at him, mouth thin.

“Would you like next review at grave?”

Richie blinked back. The feeling that he was missing something was gnawing deeper into his chest, but he wasn’t about to admit that. He shrugged.

“Que sera sera.” He warbled. 

Eddie was still glaring.

“You are weak.” Eddie said. His voice was hard, and when Richie met his eyes, they were hard too. Something deep in Richie's chest pinged. An elastic band snapping. “I work here too. Not only you.” Eddie hissed. Then, he muttered something in Polish under his breath and stormed back towards the bar. He began mopping sharply around the sticky flooring.

“Yeah, well, not everyone stabs all their problems away, Eds. Self fucking control, buddy. Look that one up.” Irritation was buzzing along Richie's nerves. Annoyance at himself, more than Eddie, for letting himself relax into a pattern that would bite him in the ass. His dad was right. He couldn't do anything, and now Eddie was letting him know, too. It was about time. He'd held back for long enough. 

There was a clatter as Eddie disappeared into the office. Something slammed loudly, and then again.

"Fuck you, too, man." Richie called. He closed his eyes and forced down the crawling feeling in his gut. A drop, like when you miss a step. 

He drove home alone, leaving Eddie to walk. He’d managed to pace around his apartment for two hours- one before midnight-dinner and one after- and then he was hopping up the stairs to Eddie’s apartment. He realised, whilst seething to himself, that he hadn't spent an evening alone for weeks. Maybe even a couple of months. That was a couple of months with Eddie's loud classical music echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Richie wasn't even sure Eddie made it home okay. He shouldn't have left him. He should check. 

His stomach was tight as he stood outside his door. He had a little monologue planned for when he saw Eddie, but it was disintegrating as he waited. His foot tapped as he stared intently at the peeling orange paint around the peephole. Eventually, though, Eddie opened the door. Silently he stepped back to let Richie inside.

They drank tea- again, in silence- side by side against Eddie's kitchen counter. Then Eddie placed his cup in the sink and quietly went through to his bedroom. Richie tossed the dregs of his own into the sink and followed Eddie, who was propped against his headboard, chin tilted towards the skylight. He hadn't turned on the light, so the glow of the night fell softly into the room. Richie sat on the edge of the mattress. They were quiet for an impossibly long time. Somehow, the fire Richie had brought with him to the door had dissipated. The still of the space between them felt thick. The irritation was there, but dull. Like a bruise on the inside of your cheek. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Richie asked quietly in the dark. “When we met. You could have shot me.”

“You were scared.” He said simply. “Hands shaked.”

“I don’t get the impression that would usually stop you.” Richie said, a touch of sardonicism in his voice. He didn’t like that. He tipped his head back and fixed his eyes on the skylight. He could feel Eddie watching him. All at once, from the silence, the static was back. It cracked like a whip.

“No. But it was not the fear.” Eddie said. “It was how you hide it.”

“You just said my hands were shaking.”

“Your hands, yes. But your face.” Eddie waved a hand over his own. “Nothing.”

“Super glad my face wasn’t shaking.” Richie said. “That woulda been pretty freaky.”

“I admired you.” Eddie replied, ignoring Richie's hollow attempt at humour. “I still do.”

Richie laughed and let himself fall back onto the mattress. Eddie’s face dipped into his field of vision as Richie rolled over onto his stomach and shifted up the bed.

Eddie was frowning at him, which made Richie laugh harder. He pressed his face into the comforter. It still smelled fresh. It reminded him of the clovers Richie used to collect on the Italian countryside when he was a kid. A deranged part of his mind wanted to take Eddie there. It saw them, together, in white robes at the villa.

“Not what it seemed like today.” Richie said, sobering. He closed his eyes. _Stupid_ , he thought.

Eddie shifted, then got up. Richie watched him go through to the kitchen. The sound of the coffee machine buzzed through the air.

“You saved my life.” Richie said, not all that loudly. There was a pause, and Eddie came into view again. He stopped in the doorway, face in shadow. "Wait 'til it gets around you showed a skinny, pathetic, _weak_ American-ski your mercy."

“I let you live.” Eddie said. “Not same.”

“Is same.” Richie grinned. Eddie shook his head, dark scowl descending over his features. Richie saw through it, and he hated that it was biting through the last of his annoyance with ease. The glow of peeling back Eddie's layers stronger than the combined sticking power of his upset. 

There was another long quiet.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said today.” Eddie said.

“Huh?” Riche said. Eddie had never apologised for anything before.

“You are not weak.” Eddie said. He came over and took Richie’s place on the edge of the mattress.

Riche stared at his profile.

"I am, actually." he said. His heart was ticking up into his throat. It always was when they were this close. He'd thought, for a while, it was the high of this impossible life they’d stepped into together. He was wondering now if there was something else to it. "You can say it."

"You are _not_." Eddie said. "I have... anger." he waved a hand, reaching for another word.

"A temper." Richie supplied. "Yeah, you don't need to tell me twice." Richie said, miming a stabbing motion with his fist against Eddie's hand. Eddie snatched his hand away. 

"I do not usually say things I do not mean." he said firmly. "But I did not mean that." 

“Your accent’s getting good.” Richie said softly. Eddie’s face turned, gently, towards him. And some unknown force- the lick of static- gave a decisive tug on Richie’s navel. It propelled him forwards. He propped himself up onto his elbow, then he sat up completely, then he and Eddie were nose to nose. There was a moment between the two of them, inches apart on Eddie’s bed under the stars, when Richie wasn’t sure which way this was going to go. Then, the force was gone. Like a wave drawing itself back into the sea, it was just Richie and Eddie. And, Richie, with no more input from the universe, closed the final gap and kissed him.

“Oh, fuck.” Was the first thing he said when he pulled back. It was a short kiss. Delicate almost. Somehow, barely more involved than their first kiss back in Poland. But also more, in a hundred terrible ways. “I’m sorry.”

Richie sat up, the surge of adrenaline beating through his fingertips.

“Shit.” He muttered again.

“Richie.” Eddie said slowly. He hadn’t moved, still sat on the corner of his neatly made bed, a hand steadying him and his face- gorgeous even painted with heavy shadows. The moonlight lit a sliver down his cheek. 

“I, uh, I’m gonna go.” Richie was off the edge of the mattress and to the door. “I’m sorry, man.” He said. Eddie was opening his mouth, one hand turned over beside him- in question?

“Night.” Richie said. And then he fled back downstairs in a blur he would later liken to blackout. To a k-hole. To anything other than the heavy and sheer embarrassment he was overwhelmed with. It was nauseating, and it ate at him for two hours until he curled on his couch and fell into a fitful sleep; his stereo blasting ugly rock music from his bedroom to mask his thoughts.


End file.
